Phobophobia
by TheOneThatGotAway99
Summary: Phobophobia – the fear of fear [A collection of short, fear related stand-alones; rated for my own paranoia; whump, angst, h/c, fluff, friendship, humor, no slash] Scopophobia, Pyrophobia, Murophobia, Heliophobia, Metamfiezomaiophobia, Soteriophobia,
1. Scopophobia

.

* * *

_Scopophobia – fear of being looked at or stared at_

Neal Caffrey is, by his own definition, a "self-made man". That of course meaning that he is a man that he himself created. Mask upon mask of suave grace, dashing charm, and boundless confidence all bundled up with an air of infinite excitement like a child on Christmas. Movements smooth as a dancer, quick as a gazelle, mind just as quick and sharp as a tack, eyes constantly filled with a spark of mischief.

But even for the very best of conmen, masks can only go so far.

And Neal's keep cracking.

One by one the masks that he had so seamlessly built up begin to break and crumble, leaving him more raw and more open with each barrier that falls. Each wall he has constructed. Each shield he hides behind.

He can put a name and a face to each crack, each chink in his hard made armor.

Kate, Mozzie, Alex. Ellen. Sarah. Diana. Jones. . . Siegel. . . James. . . Peter. . . . . . Rebecca. . .

So many. . . Too many, too many that he has let in, too many that he can't just let go. The good, the bad. The joy, the pain. All those he has cared for but have hurt or left him one way or another. Silent graves. Broken bonds. Sharpened words he'd long ago thought himself immune to.

One by one Neal's masks are cracking and faltering, losing the strength to hide all he keeps hidden. Hidden even from himself. Even he doesn't know what he looks like without these masks. These walls. These shields. . .

And he is running from the day on which the last mask will shatter.

Because he's terrified of what people may see.

* * *

_Word Count: 292_

_Disclaimer: I do not own White Collar. If I did, I would never let go of Neal and Peter wouldn't be acting like such a jerk in season five._

_Author's Notes: Normally I would look through a story for days combing for mistakes and tweaking it 'til I'm satisfied, but it is past 3 a.m., this is my first White Collar fic, and I figure I should just post it before I lose my nerve. I'll look through it in the morning and fix it then. Meanwhile, enjoy all! _

_-TheOneThatGotAway99_


	2. Pyrophobia

.

* * *

_Pyrophobia – fear of fire_

"NEAL!" Peter calls before nearly coughing up a lung and ducking under the smoke. He had just finished leading the evacuation of the apartment complex that is currently burning around him, but when he had gotten out, it was to find that Neal was not where he had told him to wait and he wasn't following behind Peter like he assumed he would if he were to disobey. No, what he did see was Neal's suit jacket, his _Devore_ suit jacket that he loves and cares for, and that damn hat lying on its side, both discarded onto the asphalt before the evacuated residents.

"Did anyone see my friend? The man wearing that hat and coat?" Peter had asked, pointing to the abandoned articles in question. Not even once did the words _'he ran'_ cross his mind. Not now, not while people's lives were in danger. Neal never would.

A woman in her mid-thirties with dark hair and brown eyes spoke up with a thick Spanish accent strained with emotion, her streaming eyes fixed on a second smoke-filled doorway that Peter hadn't noticed since then. "Mi hija. He went to get mi bebé, my Veronica!"

"Which apartment?"

"Efe uno! F1!"

That was all the information Peter needed before he was charging his way back into the building.

"Neal!" He calls again, crouching low and regaining his bearings. He glares at the door closest to him. The plaque reads 'C1', so he scuttles his way further down the hallway, passing apartments D1 and E1 without a second glance.

Bursting through the open doorway of F1, Peter nearly runs right into Neal who is bent low to avoid the billowing black clouds swirling above them while clutching a thick bundle of blankets tightly to his chest. "Neal."

"Peter! We need to get out of here! The walls are coming down and the fire is almost on top of us!"

Peter is ushered back into the hall and both men abandon their low ground to run flat out to the door they both came in. Neal is weighed down some by the load in his arms, but manages to keep up with Peter's pace. "Hurry!"

The flames lick at their heels as they both put on an extra burst of speed from the adrenaline. They fling themselves out the door just in time, as less than a second later one of the inside walls crumbles behind them.

The fire gives off a near-deafening roar as the building burns. Sirens can be heard approaching in the distance.

Peter squats on the asphalt, wheezing slightly as he tries to catch his breath and calm his racing heart.

He glances at Neal kneeling on one knee, choking back a cough as he unwraps the bundle to reveal a young girl who can't be more than five years old.

"Veronica!" her mother shouts, dropping to her knees before the girl, scooping the child into a bone-crushing embrace. "¡Mi corazón!"

"Mamá!" The girl looks to be completely unharmed, the thick blankets having protected her from both fire and smoke.

Neal looks exhausted, a mixture of sweat and ash clinging to his exposed, heat-reddened skin, hair disheveled, and the left sleeve of his white dress shirt is slightly charred and blackened, but all in all, he appears uninjured. _Thank God_, Peter supplies mentally, running a hand through his own mussed up hair.

The mother frees one arm from her daughter and wraps it around Neal's shoulders. He is unresisting as he's pulled into his own bone-crushing hug. "¡Guardó su! You saved her! Thank you! ¡Mi hija! ¡Mi Veronica! ¡Gracias! Thank you! How can I ever repay you?! Thank you!"

The woman alternates between praising Neal and telling her daughter how much she loves her, all the while planting kisses over both of them.

As Peter watches the display while firemen arrive to begin their attempts at taming the blaze, he can't help but agree, if only to himself, with a comment El made almost a decade ago: maybe Neal really is a hero that fell out of a romance novel.

* * *

_Word Count: 681_

_Disclaimer: If I owned White Collar, there would be a lot more Neal whump, and a lot less Neal and Peter trust angst. Just saying. That gets annoying pretty fast._

_Author's Notes: Okay, first thing I want to say is, no, that line was not meant to be slashy. This whole thing is slash free, simply because it isn't actually in the show. Not in the show, not in my stories, capiche? In my head, I see a rewind nine or ten years ago, Peter first describing the case of James Bonds to Elizabeth and she says something like "Hmm, he sounds like a hero out of a romance novel". Second thing I want to say is, yes, Veronica's mom is speaking Spanglish. The poor dear was worried sick. I think we can forgive her. Most of it is self-explanatory, so I'm not translating. I told you things would get more interesting soon! Hope you guys like it! Love ya!_

_-TheOneThatGotAway99_


	3. Murophobia

_Warning: This chapter may be frightening to some readers. Especially if you have a fear of rats or being trapped with/bitten by rats. Reader discretion is advised_

* * *

_Murophobia – fear of rats or mice_

As he heard the skittering coming closer, Neal called out, "Peter! Now would be a really good time to get this door open!"

"We're trying, Neal. The door has been welded shut," came the muffled reply. "We'll have you out in a minute."

Back pressed flat against the solid steel baring his exit, Neal again took in his surroundings, desperate for another escape route. No good. The windows were bared and the only air vent was too small even for his lithe form to fit through. The dank cinder block basement was empty of all furniture or anything even remotely capable of being any sort of protection from the carpet of brown fur rapidly gaining ground around him. "I seriously doubt I have a minute, Peter," he announced, panic caused his voice to waver.

Concern laced Peter's tone as he asked, "What's wrong?"

"Rats. Giant freaking rats that look like they haven't eaten in a week."

"You can scare off a few rats, can't you?" he reasoned, not unkindly.

Taking in the mob of teeth and claws and beady black eyes all staring at him, Neal swallowed hard and tried to keep his voice as even as possible. He failed. "A few, yes. _Dozens?_ Not so much. . ."

The response was immediate.

"I want that door open _now_! Jones, call animal control and EMS. I want a bus out there the moment we get Neal out. Brief them on what to expect."

There was some murmuring too low for him to hear that he assumed was Jones agreeing. Then Neal heard the tell-tale sounds of a torch starting up and working against the metal, but it was too late. The rats were upon him.

Squeaking their trumpet call, the rats closed in, clawing their way over his shoes and up his pant legs. A few settled in to chew on his calf or his thigh, while others went for his meatier bits. One tried to latch itself onto his upper arm, but he swatted it away. Another went for his stomach. And more and more were going for his neck and face, but he swiped and kicked and flung them away, all the while shouting for Peter to hurry and yelping in pain as teeth sunk into flesh.

Minutes felt like hours as he continued to fight off the vicious horde of hungry rodents. His mind clouded with adrenaline filled only with half prayers and hopes that any second his exit would open and he could escape from this hellish nightmare; his body worked on automatic, trying to swat away each rat before his skin was feasted on, but occurring more often after. He gave a particularly violent kick as a set of teeth bit into a nerve on his knee and he stumbled backward. Neal scrambled back against the steel door, unable to regain his footing as the swarm seemed to redouble their efforts to get at him.

It was there, sat upon the ground, back firm against the solid metal, limbs waving frantically to dislodge the ravenous parasites greedily picking at him, that the light brighter than the basement's dim bulbs could cast spilled across his form from behind and several pairs of arms reached in to help pull him out.

Those several pairs turned out to only have been three, when Neal was finally able to focus on his surroundings. The strong grips of Peter and Diana were each clamped to one of his arms, while Agent Blake grasped his legs and gently set them on the floor as he was pulled through the door. Or rather, a hole in the door, he noticed. Never before had Neal been more grateful for the practicality of the FBI as it appeared that the agent had decided against cutting the entire door free, and instead sliced out an opening just plenty big enough for a person to fit through.

As Blake rushed back to plug the hole against the plague of particularly petulant pests, Diana proceeded to toss the remaining rats still attached to the consultant in disgust, while Peter silently cradled the panting man against his chest. Neal closed his eyes and worked on calming his heart and breathing.

_~WC~TheFearOfFear~WC~_

Ten minutes later, after the scene had been cleared for the second time, Peter approached the back of the ambulance where his CI was being patched up. Neal sat on a step of the bus, jacket off and shirt sleeves pushed up to the elbow, while a paramedic disinfected a few nibble marks on his forearm that had already stopped bleeding.

"How you holding up?" Peter asked by way of greeting.

Neal glanced away from the EMT's work and smiled his usual charming smile at Peter. "Surprisingly well, considering a pack of rodents just tried to make a meal of me."

The EMT bandaged the last of Neal's minor injuries. Neal thanked him and the medic left Neal and Peter alone. The younger man fixed his partner with the full blunt of his attention, a serious expression on his face.

"Did we get him?"

Peter smiled reassuringly. "We got him." Then, because he simply couldn't resist, "With any luck, he'll be all too eager to _rat_ out his partners in the art theft."

"Oh, that is so not funny," Neal replied with indignation.

Pursing his lips, Peter asked, "Too soon?"

"Twenty years from now will still be too soon," Neal deadpanned.

Lips still pursed in thought, Peter nodded slowly in agreement, clapping a hand onto the younger man's shoulder. "It was a cheesy pun anyway."

* * *

_Word Count: 927_

_Disclaimer: If I owned White Collar, Neal would be locked in my closet right now. Just saying._

_Author's Notes: Heh, bit graphic in there? Sorry. But, it is both better and worse than it could have been so c'est la vie. I got to 'as teeth sunk into flesh' then thought, ohhh I should probably put a warning for this chapter. See Ailey? And you thought I was being mean to Neal in chapter two! xD _

_Hey, if anyone has any ideas or suggestions, send me a message (PM or review, doesn't matter). I have a whole list of fears, but I've only thought up stories for a few of them. Send me a prompt. If I like it, then I might just write it. Keep things clean, people. I'm trying to stay some-what in cannon, without following any actual timeline to the show. Thanks for all the reviews everyone! I am amazed! I should have started WC fics a long time ago! You people rock! Love ya all!_

_-TheOneThatGotAway99_


	4. Heliophobia

_Heliophobia – fear of sunlight_

Cape Verde islands, the port city of Santa María; sunshine, beaches, protection from local law enforcement, no extradition treaty with the US, and the best coffee this side of the Atlantic. Just what every man with limit-less wealth, a taste for the finer things in life, and is on the run from the FBI could ever need.

Well, all except for a hat. He will have to look into getting one.

Neal walks along the beach, the waves reaching to lick at the bottoms of his bare feet, while he stares off in the direction he knows his true home to be.

As seagulls' caws from overhead and the rhythmic sounds of the tides fill his ears, he can't help but think of the life in New York he left just three days ago. His feet still on the sand, and pushing away thoughts of friends and family of a life now gone, James Maine turns his back on New York City. Turns his back on Neal Caffrey.

Pasting as real a smile as he can on his face, a smile that seems dim and doesn't even begin to reach his eyes, he walks back to his island paradise. The beautiful, tropical sunlight shines down on him, warming his skin pleasantly.

_~WC~TheFearOfFear~WC~_

Heavy and surprisingly quick footsteps stop just out of sight behind the open door, breathless panting the only sound for a moment before he speaks up. "You know, I used to take pride in being able to steal your wallet." There is a quiet huff of amusement, then the other man pushes the door open the rest of the way, revealing each to the other.

Six weeks. Six weeks he thought his life in New York was gone forever. Six weeks since he last set eyes on Peter Burke. Forty-four days since he last saw his best friend that he thought he'd never see again.

"But, if a kid can do it. . ."

One month, two weeks, two days. And there he is, wearing a supremely clichéd tourist shirt in the ugliest shade of green he has ever seen and a crisp pair of blue jeans and a smile bright enough to light up the darkest of days.

As much as Neal Caffrey wants to run up to and be near the man he considers family, James Maine doesn't do it. That life, that part of him, the part that will always consider New York his home, he was supposed to have destroyed that. Supposed to have killed the part of him that is Neal Caffrey. But he couldn't. Not after all he had there. He didn't want to lose that life, even if he no longer could have it. The weight of his failure hangs on him, but is overwhelmed by his immense joy at feeling whole again for the first time in six weeks. Yet, as Peter moves forward towards him, his intentions visible in his bright brown eyes, James Maine holds up a hand to pause him, taking a couple steps forward of his own. Mozzie would think he is being cautious, but that isn't it at all. He needs that bit of space to keep a hold of his emotions. That short distance to control himself.

"How are you Peter?"

"Alright," Peter replies, taking back his wallet.

He narrows his eyes, trying to get a read on this man he thought he know, but never would have guessed would chase him halfway across the Atlantic like this. Then, before he can even blink, Peter's arms are encompassing him in a tight embrace. "Damn good to see ya."

After the shock of suddenness wears off, Neal Caffrey can't help but return the hug. Because it is. It is so good to see him. "You too."

And his smile is the most genuine it has been since he came to this island.

And suddenly, the sunshine seems blinding.

_Word Count: 652_

_Disclaimer: If I owned White Collar, I would know what will happen in the season six premiere, instead of playing around with the season four premiere. _

_Author's Notes: I've been re-watching past seasons of WC these past few weeks, and the season four two-part premiere has to be two of my favorite episodes of the entire series, along with As You Were (3x8) and Checkmate (3x11), but it is a growing list. I guess this one is probably rather boring. I had never planned on writing this one, it just snuck up on me, so here it is. Enjoy. Suggest. And for goodness sake, if you decide to review, give me something more than "It's cool. I love it. Update soon." So I can actually respond to it. xD I'm a talker! Talk to me people!_

_-TheOneThatGotAway99_


	5. Metamfiezomaiophobia

_Metamfiezomaiophobia – fear of mimes_

He flows through the crowd soundlessly, wearing white face paint and a striped shirt. The mime goes unnoticed by some, avoided by others, and admired by the rest. It isn't everyday a mime chose to perform on a busy Tuesday afternoon. Not uncommon, being that this is New York City, the average New Yorker surely has seen stranger things, but not every day.

He weaves about, performing intricate movements, looking to both attract and dodge attention. Walking up to a man in an expensive suit who appears to be in a rather heated argument via cellular device, the mime begins a show around him.

The clichéd rope pulling and invisible boxes get him shooed off in annoyance, but this mime is persistent. With the man's back now to him, the mime makes a display of mimicking the animated hand gestures of the man in the suit on the phone. A small crowd of tourists and children gather to watch the mime copy the man. As the mime pretends to poke at the man's head, a few children laugh, causing the man to turn.

A steady red coloring began to creep up the man's neck as he discovers his being made a spectacle of. Shooing off the crowd, the man sends a threatening glare at the mime, who silently raises his hands in mock surrender, stepping back a few paces.

With a final deadly glance, the man stomps away, waving down a taxi.

As soon as the man in the expensive suit with the phone has been driven around a corner, another man, this one an agent in a cheap suit with a badge hidden from sight, approaches the mime, who has stilled to watch the first man's retreat

"Did'ja get it done?" Peter Burke asks the mime.

The mime turns to the agent and smiles. "The bug has been planted. He won't even know I touched him," Neal Caffrey assures, adjusting his white gloves.

"Good."

"Told you I could be a mime. I've done it before." He raises an eyebrow teasingly, an extra note of smugness in his smile.

"I've got to admit, I'm impressed. And we finally found a cover for you that offers those of us in the van some peace from your constant chatter." He pats Neal's arm playfully, a smirk gracing his lips.

"Oh, ha ha."

"No, I mean it. You should play this part more often." Peter affectionately places his hand on the back of Neal's neck, leading the two of them back towards the van.

"Yeah, well, I won't be quitting my day job for a lucrative career as a mime any time soon."

Peter stops at the van door and opens it. "This is your day job, Neal." He steps into the van to two greetings of "Hey boss".

Neal pauses a moment, and says to no one but the wind, "Don't I know it." He disappears into the utilities van, closing the door behind him.

* * *

_Word Count: 493_

_Disclaimer: If I owned White Collar, I would dress Neal up in anything and everything I ever could. He would be like my personal Barbie doll! _

_Author's Notes: Okay, this one is rather silly. More serious stuff will be coming soon, I hope. These are all out of order from what I originally planned. But these ideas just keep popping up into my head and I just have to write them. Hope you guys aren't too upset. But what is life without a bit of silly? I think this is rather self-explanatory, but I will give a cursory explanation, just in case. Neal is dressed as a mime (and I assume, not for the first time) so as to slip a bug on a suspect without the suspect suspecting any one suspecting him. Got it? I just wanted to write Neal dressed as a mime and this is what came of it. I wrote it in between classes today, and nearly lost it when the sprinklers turned on in the grass I was having lunch on. Talk about an abrupt end to my lunch break. xD_

_A note to my most recent 'Guest' reviewer for chapter two, yes fear of the dark is most definitely on my list (it will be a dramatic piece, since I myself have a fear of the dark) and there will be more chapters with animals, they just won't all be quite like Murophobia, of course. _

_Wow, super long author's note. Sorry all. On the plus side, at least I updated really rather soon. Anyways, hope you guys enjoy this. If things go my way, there will be a fluffy introspection piece next, then some good ol' whump and h/c after that. Take care all! Suggest, if the feeling hits. Thank you, God bless, and good day (night, to some)!_

_-TheOneThatGotAway99_


	6. Soteriophobia

_Soteriophobia – fear of dependence on others_

Even the most mediocre of con artists know the three most important rules of conning.

1. Never get caught. And certainly never get caught a second time.

2. Don't tempt fate. (A.K.A. never underestimate your mark.)

3. And never, ever become emotionally attached.

A good con man can sweet-talk his way into people's lives and get what he wants. A great con man can sweet-talk his way into people's _hearts_ and get them to _give_ him what he wants. The challenge is not letting them into _your_ heart, as well. Which, to some degree, is impossible.

Neal Caffrey is a great con artist. Arguably the best con man (thief, forger, counterfeiter, escape artist, pick-pocket, safe-cracker, lock-picker, and non-violent white collar criminal elitist) of his time. Arguably one of the best that ever lived.

But, despite his best efforts, Neal has broken every single one of those rules.

And, despite his best efforts, Neal just can't seem to make himself care as much as he knows he should.

_~WC~TheFearOfFear~WC~_

Elizabeth is the one to open the door after he knocks, buried in his coat to hide from the frosty January wind.

"Neal! I'm so glad you could make it!" she beams brightly at him.

"Of course! It's a very special occasion."

"Here, come in before you catch your death out there." She steps aside to let him in. He eagerly obeys, stomping the ice off his shoes on the welcome mat. She takes his coat to hang on the rack.

He feels a small smile curl his lips as the warmth of the house envelopes him. "I brought our favorite guy a gift," Neal says, indicating the bag held in his left hand.

"Oh! That's so sweet of you! Put it in the kitchen, you can give it to him in a minute. Dinner is almost ready."

Again, Neal obeys, carrying the bag into the kitchen, the smell of homemade meatloaf wafting through the room. Upon spotting his favorite FBI agent, Neal lets out a cheery, "Hiya Peter!"

"Hey Neal, glad you could make it," Peter smiles warmly at his CI-turned-friend.

"Wouldn't have missed it for the world." He deposits the bag on the counter, then turns to face both the Burkes. "Mozzie sends his best, but won't be attending. He and the Vulture are finally getting that date they've been planning."

"Aw, well good for him," El replies, taking the wine Neal hands her.

While 'send my best' usually refers to 'regards', in Mozzie's case, it means 'send Neal's best bottle of wine'. Not that Neal is complaining. Much.

"I guess it's just us than," Peter comments with not a hint of disappointment in his voice.

"Guess so." Neal takes a seat at the table beside Peter. "So where is the guest of honor?"

Right on cue, the 'guest' struts through the back door El has just opened and into the room, shaking off a layer of slush that had collected on his golden coat, tail wagging happily.

"Hey ya, Satch!" Neal greets, crouching down on one knee to scratch the dog's head. "Happy Birthday, boy."

"Adoption Day," El corrects.

Peter explains. "He's a rescue, a few months old when we got him, so no one knows his actual birthday. We could guess, but. . ." he shrugs.

"We just celebrate his adoption day," El supplies, stepping around the younger man, now on both knees and rubbing luxuriously at the lounging dog's exposed belly, to stand beside her husband.

Pausing in his attention giving, Neal reaches into the bag he set on the counter and pulls out a fake metal badge with the words 'World's Greatest FBI Dog' etched on its surface. He flashes it at husband and wife, eliciting a chuckle from Peter and a coo from El, then clips the badge to Satchmo's collar and continues showering the pooch with affection. "Well, birthdays are one thing, but not everyone gets a day to celebrate becoming part of the Burke family."

Elizabeth wraps her arms around Peter to speak in his ear, voice soft so he would be the only one to hear. "When are we going to celebrate the day Neal became a part of our family?" She questions with an affectionate, maternal smile at the man and dog sprawled lazily on the dining room floor and a knowing wink at her husband, who lets his own fond smile at the sight be his answer.

_~WC~TheFearOfFear~WC~_

Neal Caffrey, arguably the best con artist (thief, forger, counterfeiter, escape artist, pick-pocket, safe-cracker, lock-picker, and non-violent white collar criminal elitist) that ever lived, has broken all three of the most important rules of conning.

1. He has been caught. Twice. By the same man.

2. Underestimating his mark was one of the first mistakes he ever made in becoming the best of con men (etc.). And he makes it a point to tempt fate at every possible opportunity. Simply on principle.

And lastly, 3. Neal has become inexplicably, and irrevocably, emotionally attached to one Peter Burke. The very same man that caught him. Both times. And his wife. And their dog.

And despite knowing that he shouldn't, that he should never have let this happen in the first place, that this hasn't been brought about by one of his cons and is real and more than likely dangerous, he just can't seem to make himself care about that.

And that is perfectly okay with Neal.

Rules are really more like just guidelines, anyway.

* * *

_Word Count:910_

_Disclaimer: If I owned Neal Caffrey *cough* I mean, White Collar, I would be a very happy person. ;)_

_Author's Notes: This was fluffy, right? Well, I thought it was sweet. I'd categorize that as family/friendship, at least. This is a better El then the one I've been seeing on TV as of late. I can't remember the Vulture's name, and just figured everyone would forgive that for the knowledge of who that actually is instead. After having written most of this story earlier in the week, today I read a fic that had a Mozzie/Sarah ship, but only background. At first, that frightened me a little. I mean, Sarah Elis and Mozzie, a couple?! *shudders* But the story was good so now I'm open minded of it. Don't be expecting any Moz/Sarah shipage from me any time soon (or any non-canon ships or any romance pieces at all, because I don't really do romance, author-wise anyways), just saying I'm open minded. _

_Now, the next chapter will have, if not action, then at least Neal whump and angst, no matter which of the three ideas I currently have is written first and fastest, and an appearance from either Moz, Di, or Jones (or some combination of the three). Mind you, I'm writing this when I should be studying for my Spanish test. Yo podría fallar en esta prueba. No me gustan las tareas de la casa. Estar bien, mis amigos. ¡Me encantan! ¡Adiós! _

_-TheOneThatGotAway99_


End file.
